The Changes of Life

The Changes of Life

If you want pictures of the changes of life, turn to this wonderful book of poetry, the Sacred Scriptures, and there you will find metaphors piled on metaphors. And, first, you will find life compared to a pilgrimage by good old Jacob in the forty-seventh chapter of Genesis, and the ninth verse. That hoary-headed patriarch, when he was asked by Pharaoh what was his age, replied, "The days of the years of my pilgrimage are an hundred and thirty years: few and evil have the days of the years of my life been, and have not attained unto the days of the years of the life of my fathers in the days of their pilgrimage." He calls life a pilgrimage. A pilgrim sets out in the morning, and he has to journey many a day before he gets to the shrine which he seeks. What varied scenes the traveller will behold on his way! Sometimes he will be on the mountains; anon he will descend into the valleys; here he will be where the brooks shine like silver, where the birds warble, where the air is balmy, and the trees are green, and luscious fruits hang down to gratify his taste; anon he will find himself in the arid desert, where no life is found, and no sound is heard, except the screech of the wild eagle in the air, where he finds no rest for the sole of his foot—the burning sky above him and the hot sand beneath him—no roof-tree, and no house to rest himself; at another time he finds himself in a sweet oasis, resting himself by the springs of water, and plucking fruit from palm trees. One moment he walks between the rocks, in some narrow gorge, where all is darkness; at another time he ascends the hill, Miza; now he descends into the valley of Baca; anon he climbs the hill of Bashan, "a high hill is the hill of Bashan;" and yet again going into a den of leopards, he suffers trial and affliction. Such is life—ever changing. Who can tell what may come next? To-day it is fair, the next day there may be the thundering storm; to-day I may want for nothing, to-morrow I may be like Jacob, with nothing but a stone for my pillow, and the heavens for my curtains. But what a happy thought it is, though we know not where the road winds, we know where it ends! It is the straightest way to Heaven to go round about. Israel's forty years' wanderings were, after all, the nearest path to Canaan. We may have to go through trial and affliction; the pilgrimage may be a tiresome one, but it is safe; we cannot trace the river upon which we are sailing, but we know it ends in floods of bliss at last. We cannot track the roads, but we know that they all meet in the great metropolis of Heaven, in the centre of God's universe. God help us to pursue the true pilgrimage of a pious life!

We have another picture of life in its changes, given us in Psalms 19:9,

"We spend our years as a tale that is told." Now David understood about tales that were told; I daresay he had been annoyed by them sometimes. There are in the East professed story-tellers, who amuse their hearers by inventing tales such as those in that foolish book, the "Arabian Nights." When I was foolish enough to read that book, I remember sometimes you were with fairies, sometimes with genii, sometimes in palaces, anon you went down into caverns. All sorts of singular things are conglomerated into what they call a tale. Now, says David, "We spend our years as a tale that is told." You know there is nothing so wonderful as the history of the odds and ends of human life. Sometimes it is a merry rhyme, sometimes a prosy subject, sometimes you ascend to the sublime, soon you descend to the ridiculous. No man can write the whole of his own biography; I suppose if the history of a man's thoughts and words could be written, scarce the world itself could contain the words that should be written, so wonderful is the tale that is told. Our lives are all singular, and must, to ourselves, seem strange, of which much might be said. Our life is "as a tale that is told."

Another idea we get from the thirty-eighth chapter of Isaiah, at the twelfth verse. "I am removed as a shepherd's tent." The shepherds in the East build temporary huts near the sheep, which are soon removed when the flock moves on; when the hot season comes on they pitch their tents, and each season had its suitable position. My life is like a shepherd's tent. I have pitched my tent in a variety of places already, but where I shall pitch it by-and-by I do not know—I cannot tell. Present probabilities seem to say that—

"Here shall I make my settled rest, And neither go nor come,— No more a stranger or a guest, But like a child at home."

But I cannot tell, and you cannot divine. You have been opening a new shop lately, and you are thinking of settling down in trade, and managing a thriving concern: now paint not the future too brightly; don't be too sure. Another has for a long time been engaged in an old establishment; your father always carried on business there, and you have no thought of moving. Here you have no abiding city; your life is like a shepherd's tent; you may be here, there, and almost everywhere before you die. It was once said by Solon, "No man ought to be called a happy man till he dies," because he does not know what his life is to be; but Christians may always call themselves happy men here, because wherever their tent is carried, they cannot pitch it where the cloud does not move, and where they are not surrounded by a circle of fire. "I will be a wall of fire round about them, and their glory in the midst." They cannot dwell where God is not householder, warder, and bulwark of salvation.

"All my ways shall ever be Ordered by His wise decree."

I know that my tent cannot be removed till God says, "Go forward;" and it cannot stand unless He makes it firm. If any who are God's people are going to change their condition, are going to move out of one situation into another, to take a new business, or remove to another county, you need not fear; God was with you in the last place, and He will be with you in this. "Be not dismayed, for I am thy God." That is an oft-told story of Caesar in a storm. The sailors were all afraid, but he exclaimed, "Fear not!—thou carriest Cæsar and all his fortunes." So with the poor Christian. There is a storm coming on: "Fear not!—thou art carrying Jesus, and you sink or swim with Him." Well may we say, Lord, if Thou art with me, it matters not where my tent is," Though I make my bed in hell, Thou art there;" all must be well, though my life is "removed like a shepherd's tent."

Again: our life is compared in the Psalms to a dream. Now, if a tale is singular, surely a dream is more so. If a tale is changing and shifting, what is a dream? As for dreams, those flutterings of the benighted fancy, those revelries of the imagination, who can tell what they consist of? We dream of everything in the world, and a few things more! If we were asked to tell our dreams, it would be impossible. You dream that you are at a feast; lo, the viands change into a Pegasus, and you are riding through the air; or, again, suddenly transformed into a morsel for a monster meal. Such is life. The changes occur as suddenly as they happen in a dream. Men have been rich one day; they have been beggars the next. We have witnessed the exile of monarchs, and the flight of a potentate; or, in another direction, we have seen a man, neither reputable in company, nor honourable in station, at a single stride, exalted to a throne; and you who would have shunned him in the streets before, were foolish enough to throng your thoroughfares to stare at him. Ah! such is life. Leaves of the Sybil were not more easily moved by the winds, nor are dreams more variable: "Boast not thyself of to-morrow, for thou knowest not what a day may bring forth." How foolish are those men who wish to pry into futurity; the telescope is ready, and they are looking through; but they are so anxious to see that they breathe on their glass with their hot breath, and they dim it, so that they can discern nothing but clouds and darkness. Oh! ye who are always conjuring up black fiends from the deep unknown, and foolishly vexing your mind with fancies, turn your fancies out of doors, and begin to rest on never-failing promises. Promises are better than forebodings: "Trust in the Lord, and do good; verily thou shalt be fed; thou shalt inherit the land, and dwell therein for ever."

What is to be the end of this life? We read in Samuel, we are like "water that is spilt upon the ground, and cannot be gathered up again." Man is like a great icicle, which the sun of time is continually thawing, and which is soon to be water spilt upon the ground, that cannot be gathered up. Who can recall the departed spirit, or inflate the lungs with a new breath of life? Who can put vitality into the heart, and restore the soul from Hades? None. It cannot be gathered up. The place shall know it no more for ever. But here a sweet thought charms us! This water cannot be lost, but it shall descend into the soil to filter through the rock of ages, at last to spring up a pure fountain in Heaven, cleansed, purified, and made clear as crystal. How terrible if, on the other hand, it should percolate the black earth of sin, and hang in horrid drops in the dark caverns of destruction!

Such is life! Then make the best use you can of it, because it is fleeting. Look for another life, because this life is not a very desirable one,—it is so changeable. Trust your life in God's hand, because you cannot control its movements; rest in His arms, and rely on His might; for He is able to do for you exceeding abundantly above all that you can ask or think!